You know what it's like?
To be tortured of mind.
To have all these thoughts.
To feel nothing in kind.

I taste only ash.
No longer I smell.
For the scent of rain.
My soul I'd sell.

No reason to cry.
No reason to smile.
No logic to suffer.
It's been a while.

All night I think,
Of where I went wrong.
What brought me here?
Was it her or that song?

What difference it makes.
Apparently none.
Am I already dead?
Is this life done?

If I’d known I was going to be here, I would’ve stayed home.

I can't tell you which star is which.
Only because I don't know.
I can tell you how it feels. To touch one.
It's soft and warm. Think early spring.
That tingling feeling. Couple that with the good kind of nervous.
Never will my heart beat so fast whilst I remain perfectly at ease.
I don't care what we talk about. Just so long as we keep talking.
The mythology behind the blood orchids or Marie Curie.
If I fall asleep, I'll just pick up where we left off in my dreams.
I don't know where that river goes.
I know I can relate to it.
In so as it passes you by in this moment in time, as do I.
Though our time seems of length. Tis only a breath.
I am not yours and you are not mine.
Just as the moon doesn't belong to the wolf.
Nor does the wolf belong to the moon.
In knowing this. I will trade a thousand breaths to one.
If only that one could be spent with you.

I’ve tried drowning you
I’ve tried axphysiating you
I’ve tried writing about anything,
but you
I’ve tried reaching for you.
Only to have the smoke left by the memory of you burn my eyes
And as I stare down into the valley where once his laugh echoed
I stand before a callous moon and weep
I wet my lips once more, dry them off with one more drag
And I began my descent into the valley
Because if I’m ever going to rest
I have to **** every demon that whispers your name

How vain it would be, to think that you'd want to dance with me.
You, a summer sunset. Me, the salt and sea.

There’s no shelter here.
Then inn is full. Someone **** in the other room and another guest set fire to the furniture.
Before that. Someone gutted the interior and ****** on the door.
Keep it moving.
I’m closing up shop.
I can’t take the heartache.
Take your hollowed out compliments.
Your empty declarations.
Reused terms of endearment.
I’m just too tired to care anymore.

Tell me a secret.
Tell me about that time.
That place.
It's ok.
You can trust me.
I'm going to assume you're lying anyway.

Shatter me
As if dropping a spider
Smash my spirit against your wall
Test my will
If you will
Preserve this moment to memory
Before you make your attempt
Remember me as I am
As the storm rolls in
And this test of wills begins
Where you’ll find me here
Under the stars and just beyond your reach
Salted, baked, and thirsty
Be merciless in your verbality
I beg of you my darling
Only your worst will do
The joke is on you my love
I was already broken when we met

There’s not much to who I am.
An assortment of ****** memories and ******* decisions pretty much cumulates the bulk of it.
There are few chapters left in my book, if any at all, and it’s finest kind because my ink well is running dry.
I figured it out. No bible, no koran, no holy scripture. It was pretty easy actually. It all came down to “just don’t be a ****”. Somehow there are people who have managed to become incredibly wealthy by stretching that philosophy out over hundreds of pages and thousands of years.
I made sure to secure any permanent ties. No kids, no wife, no friends or family. I think I’ve always known I was only writing a short story. So it sub consciously never made sense to establish any ties. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying. I endeavored nonetheless. Human nature I suppose.
Mine was never good story. More along the lines of The Catcher in the Rye meets an early eighties Hustler meets a refrigerator magnet that reads Worcester.
I found it frustrating. Perpetually confusing and more than once I’ve wanted it to be over.
A good writer would be able to continue along this line of thinking and perhaps mold it into something meaningful.
I’m not a good writer.

I wouldn’t ride in on a noble steed.
It’d be a tauntaun.
Much like myself it would smolder with hatred and be high. All the time.
I’m going to **** in your garden before I knock on your door.
I’ll accidentally **** on the fairies in your garden. They’ll never let it go.
My tauntaun is going to attempt to mount your unicorn.
If you live in a mushroom, I’m going to lick it.
I’ll take you down by ******* river to watch the nymphs do battle with the pixies.
It’s a racial thing.
Our centaur waiter will bring us pork and meade.
I’ll mock his political views and we’ll be asked to leave.
You’ll like be horrified that I feed my tauntaun the hopes and dreams of children.
I’ll ask to accompany you to rainbow valley for a stroll amongst the fireflies of bliss.
You’ll comply because rohypnol.
By the time you come back around. I will have burnt down rainbow valley and the fireflies of bliss have been pimped out to the honeybees of discontent.
You’ll be unscathed. Don’t flatter yourself. It’s a first date. You could be ripe with chlamydia.
By the time we get back to your ****** up house of fungus. We will have grown weary of one another.
We feign a hug and go our separate ways. You’re going to go cry in the shower of happiness and I’m going to fight a homeless leprechaun.

The hate that I carry for certain things is somewhat irrational.
Like local news, national news, **** I just hate them all.

Corn on the cob, a ****** slob, neither of these are appealing.
Al ****** Roker a **** hand in poker or the noise of tires squealing.

Exhausted cliches' the word cliche and **** you Betty White.
She's not that funny, she's not even clever, to tv she's but a slight.

If you tell me your christian I won't even listen to what you have to say.
I could bid you ado or say *******, each and every day.

Don't get me wrong I know of my hate, I said it doesn't make sense.
Capitalism ***** poodles are ugly and voting just makes me tense.

Now tell me how I've killed your vibe you karma believing ****.
It doesn't exist no need to persist, your insistence will get you naught.

Very old knots, those ****** themed slots, and even the unicorn.
I'd strap his *** to a watering board and saw off that ****** horn.

You want something pretty? A little less ******? Than all my putrid hate.
I'm good at this game and I know that it's lame and by now it's getting late.

For now I must leave you I probably won't grieve you and I won't say that I'm sorry.
I needed to write I do it in spite of the fact I have no talent.